Hints and Whispers
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. An Autumn evening in Hogwarts carries a heavy weight for one very oblivious Professor Snape. SS/HG; a long awaited awakening. Eight years post the war, teaching AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing at all, and am very, very glad that I do not for that means I have the chance to play with these characters and toss them into a very AU type of cauldron. The title is directly from Bill Whelan's piece 'Riverdance', because I am an utter (and very unapologetic) romantic. The excerpt at the beginning is from the song. Expect more excerpts, because I simply cannot resist.

 **Rating:** M, to be careful.

 **Author's Note:** This originally came to me as a one-shot but I do foresee that I shall continue with this, though it will not be particularly long – as you will see, you'll be thrown right into the thick of things. Perhaps another time will see me writing a longer story to do justice to this pairing, but for now, this particular story will be about 4 chapters long I believe. Obviously, this is an AU – Severus is 46 (not even in his full prime of life, yet), Hermione is 26, both are teachers at Hogwarts, though most other things in canon have occurred. Enjoy!

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 **Chapter 1: Hunger**

Hear my cry in my hungering search for you  
Taste my breath on the wind  
See the sky as it mirrors my colors  
Hints and whispers begin

 **November, 2006.**

The sounds of merriment in the corridors and halls above are muffled by layers of stone and spells, a fact that has left Severus a very satisfied man. Sitting on a chair by the fire, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, all he hears are the crackles in the air as the flames jump in time with each word his eyes take in on the pages in front of him. It is a good book, he supposes; adequate, not wholly dull, somewhat enlightening. He is almost tempted to reach over to the coffee table in the middle of the two chairs in front of the fire to grab a pen and paper to take some notes (let it not be said that Severus Snape does not know the strange pleasure to be taken out of setting a pen to paper rather than quill to parchment), though his hands only twitch as he reads a line that makes his eyes roll. The book is discarded.

Absentmindedly he does decide to pick up the writing materials, though he does not put any words to the paper. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight is for him and him alone – the students are celebrating something or other, the other Heads of Houses are enjoying themselves, and he is utterly content with ignoring the whole sodding thing and enjoying some well deserved peace and quiet. For now, anyway.

He leans back in the chair and lets his head fall against the cushioned headrest. For a long moment his eyes close, the silence only punctured by the scratch of his pen as he forms lines and shapes that mean absolutely nothing at all. He looks down at his work and snorts out a bitter laugh, realising that even in barely there scribbles he has done exactly eight of them (whatever they are) and eight is a number he knows all too well.

It has been eight years since 'the day'; or 'the war'; or perhaps 'the defeat'. He has heard them all, seen them all written on front pages, capitalised, un-capitalised, italicised, underlined, Merlin name it – he has seen it. Eight years of new students who whisper stories that have grown more and more embellished; each month seems to bring new revelations or surprising twists. Twists that, of course, he has heard bugger all of before they come out of the stammering mouths of the first years that he teaches. Each new one does provide some measure of entertainment, although it is rare that he is spoken well enough of to leave him with more than the urge to growl. He did come back to Hogwarts after all – perhaps it is his penance to listen to such rumours and indulge trembling students with a glower every so often.

Without much thought he rises and heads further over to the small kitchen that runs along half of one side of the wall. It is orderly enough, though he cannot resist a small smirk when he sees the books strewn over the coffee tables (of which there are two; one between the two chairs at the fire, and another in front of the black couch in the middle of the room, sitting on top of a rug). He is a tidy man, and quite fastidious with his appearance – or at least his personal cleanliness – but one look at his private quarters will show that Severus is indeed a man that enjoys a moderate amount of freedom to fling his robes in the corner of the room when he arrives in a billow of black from a particularly trying class (when are they ever not trying?) or to let a mug or two stand in gaps on the multiple bookcases that line all of the walls with the exception of the fireplace and the kitchen. Open plan living suits him, he thinks, then inevitably he shrugs at the ridiculousness of such a thought. It does not escape him, however, that he has the _time_ to think of such a thing; it is a very decadent thought, he decides, and so he stirs the dark hot chocolate with as much pleasure as he can rouse, then stretches out on the couch to stare again at the flames, taking sips every now and then.

The Muggle clock above the fireplace ticks the seconds away and he tries not to ponder the fact that he is, as he has been for nigh on a year now, waiting. He takes another long drink of the warm chocolate, a vice _she_ is responsible for, though could any man resist when she'd managed to procure something with such dark percentage? It is nothing like the drinks served up by the house elves, nothing like the steaming mugs that the students clutch on cold days. It is rich, smooth, bitter. Almost like silk.

Another tick of the clock and Severus has finished his drink. He lets his head rest on the arm of the couch, his feet dangling over the other end. He is affecting nonchalance, something that works quite well for him – because he knows that she is here.

How?

The cat, of course. The cat always comes before she does – he has long suspected that she gives the thing a nudge or two to conjure up a reason to come and see him. Never once has he said directly that she need not do such a thing for that would require admitting that her presence in his chambers a few nights a week is welcome, something that he looks forward to.

Which it is.

She makes no sound as she enters; she lets the cat do the talking for her and he cracks open one eye as Crookshanks jumps up and settles his substantial weight on Severus' stomach.

"Your cat is far too familiar with my person," he remarks dryly, not bothering to turn his head to where she is undoubtedly standing at the doorway, taking in the sight. Why she does such a thing he'll never know, considering this has been repeated since she began coming all the way down here. In fact, he has never even understood why she comes at all. But he is too far gone to tell her to stop. Becoming dependent on a person is not something that he wishes, not after serving two masters and living to see them both die, and he is too old to think of himself as a fool that waits for the moment that she silently enters the room, yet he does wait. Quite foolishly, at that.

"He was cold," she says in return, defending herself. He shrugs it off and smirks into the air until she walks into the room, waving her hand so the door shuts quietly behind her with a click. "Tell me again why one must walk through your classroom to reach your quarters."

"Ten points for impudence."

"Twenty for being a cantankerous git," Hermione hurls back and he almost laughs. Of course they cannot deduct points – they are, after all, _equals_ in a strange way. He knew her when she was young enough to be the most ridiculously annoying little child he had ever taught, and now he knows her as a woman who is nearing thirty. When she became that woman and not a child… well, Severus is uncertain, which in itself is disturbing and sobering. He is silent for a long moment as she settles into one of the chairs in front of the fire.

"I trust everything is under control upstairs," he says eventually, inwardly rolling his eyes at the realisation that it sounds like he actually cares about upstairs at all – he does not. But he does want to hear her voice.

"Somewhat," she says with a smile. "Someone managed to bring in some… _treats."_

"Oh?" Despite himself, his interest has been piqued and he opens both of his eyes and shuffles until his hands are linked behind his head to prop him up, all the better to see how her cheeks flush slightly. Or perhaps he is imagining it.

"Mmm," she hums, drawing it out with a familiar looking smirk that only widens when he huffs. "Something you would no doubt enjoy."

"Whiz-bangs," he says at once. This time he cannot stop a bark of laughter as she nods and covers her smile with a hand, looking away from him to face the fire. His fingers itch to push her hand away; it struck him a long time ago that she has a rather delightful smile. He clenches his hands together resolutely instead, wondering when he started using words like 'delightful'.

"I should have been there," he says with a grin, noting her pleased look. Why she always looks satisfied when he truly smiles, he has no idea.

"No you shouldn't have – you would have betrayed your dour persona by laughing."

"Well, there's that," he admits easily. Did her eyes just dart to where his shirt has ridden up? She looks away and somehow he is no longer in his forties, he is a stupid sod of a teenager again, so he yanks at the offending material until it covers his scarred stomach and she pretends not to notice. _Does she truly find him so repulsive?_ Obviously not his company, as bad as it is, for she does keep coming, but not for the first time Severus finds himself wishing that he was not tortured by the beautiful, young, smooth woman sitting a few feet away from him. He is old, far older than he wants to be when she is in the room, yet there it is – he is old, she is young, he is a fool and seeing things that are not there. Even in her teaching robes, open to show only a plain pair of jeans and a white shirt underneath, she is far more beautiful than any woman he has spoken to in years. Her hair is not as bushy as it once was, she's grown it longer, but it's still curly and wild enough to make him want to thrust his fingers into the mess of it. She does not have many new wrinkles on her face apart from laugh lines but she is taller, and softer – somewhere, somehow (he does not know where nor when, something that is comforting) her breasts grew fuller, her waist more pronounced, her face… her face is older, in a way that he cannot place. Her eyes have seen things, to be sure, but she laughs with a strange seriousness, and she frowns more often than she used to. Perhaps this was what drew his attention to her in the first place; she is not dissimilar to him, which is a very, very strange idea.

"What were you reading?" she asks, her fingers flitting over the many titles on the coffee tables.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Hermione leans forward in her chair, one eyebrow cocked. "Severus," she says, eyeing him as she would a lying first year. His name catches him off guard – for a second he wonders what it would sound like if it came out from her lips like a sigh, or a cry of pleasure. He coughs and clears his throat.

"Truly, nothing. I was…" he waves a vague hand towards the empty mug, snorting when she beams.

"Hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate," he confirms.

"So you _do_ like it!"

He resists the urge to make a comment insulting her intelligence, though his deadpan look must say it all because soon enough she shakes her head and stands up, only to jerk her chin to the side impatiently. "Move, then," she orders. He wastes no time and soon she flops down beside him, both of their socked feet resting on any spare place on the coffee table that isn't already occupied by a book.

He knows there is a question coming – why else would she sit closer to him? Hermione seems to prefer contact, touch, and while he does not particularly enjoy it, he certainly cannot bring himself to complain when her shoulder brushes his for a second, even if she could not possibly have meant to do it. Hermione is the type to put her hand on someone's arm if she is requesting something, or grab onto someone's hand if she is demanding instead. Once, she even laid a soft hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently, an act of comfort that he had not experienced for many years.

"Severus?"

He grunts in acknowledgement.

"Are you staying for Christmas?"

"That is an absolutely inane question, even coming from you."

When she replies, he can hear the smile in her voice. "Well, I thought I'd check."

"You have asked me that question each year since you began teaching," he replied, barely holding back a sneer.

"Maybe one year you will decide to… not stay," she says, then rubs her forehead. "Sorry. It was a stupid question, wasn't it? I just…"

"You just?"

"Never mind," she mumbles. Oh, but he does mind, Hermione – he does so want to know what you were going to say, but he won't ask.

"Right."

"Severus?"

He turns to her and their eyes meet, long enough to notice that her pupils dilate, though it's more than likely a trick of the light. "Yes?"

"I, uh…" Hermione has never been this tongue tied before. Severus waits, though he soon becomes impatient and his fingers start tapping on his bad knee. She sucks in a breath when she notices, obviously embarrassed. "Sorry."

"Do not apologise if you do not have a reason to," he chastises her, returning to the safe ribbing that they are accustomed to. Her sigh of relief is audible and whatever she was going to say has been swallowed up when she jumps up and goes to fix her own cup of hot chocolate. There is no telling what was going to come out of her mouth, but he brushes it aside, knowing that it can never be what he admits that he wishes to hear.

Eventually, he realises that he should say something. "How are your classes?" He knows, of course. Hermione's Muggle Studies classes are virtually the only classes that the students in his House talk of positively. Hermione has made a reputation for herself as the fair Professor; she does not favour anyone, no matter if their colours are green or red and gold.

"Oh," she grumbles inaudibly under her breath. "Fine. Really, they're fine," she says, noting his raised eyebrows. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all."

At once the atmosphere is tense. Severus knows that his face has frozen into its mask of politeness, the way it does when she refers to her life outside of their little bi-weekly meetings. The idea that she is seeing someone is… bewilderingly disconcerting. A slow heat spreads throughout his body, and it takes him a while to understand that he is _angry_ that she is tired because of… because of what?

"Why?" He cannot stop himself. He has to know. For all that he is in his forties and she is in her twenties, for _God's sake she is in her twenties,_ he has to know.

Hermione coughs and bites her lower lip, the movement so tantalizing that he cannot bring himself to look away.

Finally, she meets his gaze again. "I can't sleep. Or… yes. I'm not sleeping."

"You're not…" he trails off, seeing her words for what they are. Of course she has someone – of course there is a man in her bed that sees what he cannot, that touches what he cannot. For two years he has met her smiles in the staff common room with the polite half smiles that he has mastered, and now for one year he has sat with her in his chambers, or walked with her on the grounds outside when she bounds in with her endless energy, refusing to stay underground.

It does not give him any claim over her, though he bloody well wishes that it did. Not that he wants to _claim_ her – no, claim is not the right word. 'Have' is not the right word, either. He simply… he simply _wants_. He has been a sodding fool to entertain the idea that, by some Muggle type miracle, there would be a woman on the earth who would desire his company. And he has found that woman in Hermione – she keeps returning to his chambers, making the trek through his classroom to his private quarters, flopping down on the couch or chair and making mindless conversation. It took him two months to enjoy the concept of it all, and four more months after that for her slender body to haunt his dreams. And now, after six months of waking to an uncomfortable hardness every fucking morning, he is marked for the fool that he always knew he was.

"If you are tired, then it is time for you to retire," he says curtly. "Goodnight."

He does not wait for her to answer him. It is a childish thing to do, but he gets up immediately and strides quickly through the room until he reaches the door at the other side, wrenches it open and then slams it behind him. The small corridor in front of him holds three doors, one to his bathroom, one to his bedroom, one to his private laboratory. He does not wait for her to leave, and after a moment's deliberation he chooses the door to the lab, descends the stairs in silence, and then stands in the dark and cold room, just registering that his hands are shaking with anger and disappointment.

He stands there for twenty minutes, and only when he notices the wards registering her departure does he push his shirt sleeves up and move robotically towards the cabinets, his mind already blank as he reaches for the ingredients to distract him. He has upset her, of that he has no doubt, and it is a measure of just how much she has wormed her way into his heart that it takes him only two minutes of chopping and measuring before he begins thinking of ways to apologise without really saying the words.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing – not even the quotes from Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones. The Shakespeare referenced is from the Taming of the Shrew.

 **A/N:** Thank you and welcome to all of the followers, favourites, reviewers and readers. What a lovely surprise to see that you're enjoying it so far! This is my first proper foray into this pairing, and I am beyond happy to see that it's being received well thus far. Lyrics at the start are 'Midnight Rain', Paul Kelly – a beautiful song in case anyone is looking for HG/SS music, hah. I am listening to it at the moment, so I shall say with utter certainty that it's the song Hermione plays later in the chapter.

Without further ado, here is the next chapter, in which our favourite witch slightly loses the plot. Don't tell me you haven't thought that she'd have quite the vocabulary underneath all of that politeness.

As always, I'd love to hear/see/read your thoughts.

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 **Chapter 2: Deeper Water**

Something woke me up

Must have been the rain

And for no good reason, here you are

Inside my head again.

" _Shit._ "

Hermione rakes a hand through her hair and stares at the place where Severus was sitting until only a few seconds ago, when she opened her mouth and said something that did not resemble anything that she wished to say in the first place.

"Double shit."

His wards snap into place as soon as the door to his private quarters is slammed and she knows without a doubt that he has stormed down the stairs to his laboratory.

 _I will not get upset over a man, I will not get upset over a man!_

Oh, God.

She leaves soon after, not bothering to summon Crookshanks who is currently staring at her balefully from his spot on the couch. "Sod off, then," she grumbles. Somewhere along the line Hermione has developed a mouth that resembles a gutter; it used to be quite amusing, but at the moment it serves to remind her of the man who is currently avoiding her in the depths of the castle below her.

"Buggeration… fuckity fuck fuck _fuck!"_ she says with gusto and stalks to the door and lets herself out, beginning the long walk from Severus' classroom up to the rooms she has on the fifth floor, diplomatically located an equal distance from any of the Houses.

A few times she must pause and paint a stern expression on her face to order students who really are old enough to know better to go back to their beds, preferably alone, but as soon as she is far from the student common rooms she quickly resumes her growling. She has a faint idea of where she picked up such a habit, but Hermione is quite sure that Severus Snape has never uttered words like she is currently throwing out.

"Bloody git of a man! I have had enough of this… of this…" she stops for a moment, thinks furiously, turns on her heel and marches back five paces to thrust a finger in an unsuspecting student's face. Severus would have made a comment about dark corners and danger, while sneering/snarling/growling, but Hermione gets straight to the point; she is _not_ in the mood for sixth years thinking they can get one up on her by hiding behind a bloody statue.

"Bridget!"

To her credit, Bridget does cower. "Get back to your bed! Now!"

The red haired girl scampers off and Hermione's tirade resumes, the words pouring out of her mouth to match the swift strides of her legs.

"I have had enough of this… emotional fuckwittage! Yes! Fuckwittage!" Hermione offers an exaggerated salute in the air to Helen Fielding, and finally pushes the door open to her own private quarters. She pauses on the threshold, taking in the rooms; one small living area with a door leading to a bedroom with a bathroom attached; a little kitchenette; bookcases everywhere, a couch, a few large pillows on the floor that are covered in orange hair.

She crosses the room slowly and sinks down onto her couch, her head falling back with a soft thud. The urge to cry is nearly overwhelming; her eyes are prickling, her throat is thick. She picks up her Muggle phone, then drops it on the couch, tempted to call Luna but not tempted enough because calling Luna means charming the phone and charming the phone means using the spell that Severus taught her. Besides, Luna is probably with Neville and Hermione does not wish to open the door to _that_ again.

Hermione looks at the phone again, that blasted little piece of plastic. She can trace it all back to this phone, if she is honest.

~0~

Severus had been so ridiculously proud of himself; he'd marched up to her rooms with his near permanent scowl and as soon as he'd let himself in, it was wiped clean and replaced with a victorious smirk.

"It's done."

Hermione sat up. "What's done?" She'd been sprawled on the couch, a book dangling precariously open over her face and her lips silently mouthing the words, a habit that had never seemed to break.

Severus crossed his arms at his chest and glowered again. "It is _done._ "

His movement drew her eyes to his chest and the buttons on the coat he stubbornly wore all year round. Briefly, she wondered just how many buttons there were then, resisting the urge to reach out a finger and undo them, Hermione swallowed and stood, eyes narrowed and mouth screwed up as she examined his face for clues. His stony face gave nothing away, except for a single twitch at the corner of his mouth; Severus was _excited_ , but about what… What could excite him…

Hermione gasped. "Bollocks!" Her hands went straight to her hips and her neck jutted out when she saw the small black object held in one of his hands. "You didn't!"

He was a teenager again – just for a second. Pink thin lips stretched into a wolfish grin and he produced the phone, dialled a random number and both of them listened to an old woman say a greeting over and over again until Severus pressed the red button just before she could tell the woman that it was 'Hermione Granger calling, wanton sex goddess with a very bad man between her thighs.'

At that, Severus raised an eyebrow but she was too happy to care. He was a forty six year old man for Merlin's sake, but it was second nature to run and throw her arms around him, let out a quick squeal and squeeze like she was going to break him. Severus froze at the contact; his body was still and that, right there, was the moment that Hermione realised that she had been fooling herself for far, far too long.

He was so thin that it was almost like holding a child; her torso on his felt as if it was flowing over him rather than simply meeting. But when her fingers squeezed out of excitement it was not bones that they held onto – somehow his slenderness was smooth and flat, muscles coating his skin instead of the fleshiness that she'd seen on Ron. She did not want to let go.

Hermione had noticed that Severus was no longer the unhealthy, sallow looking man of her youth. On her first day as a teacher rather than a student, a mere three years after she walked out of the doors of Hogwarts for what was meant to be the last time, she'd noticed that his fair skin had a touch of pink, a natural pink, and his hair that had seemed greasy before was actually not at all; it was smooth, and so fine and black that it shone under the light of the teacher's common room. No, definitely not greasy. Even his teeth, not that she could be bothered to care about such a thing, were whiter though still slightly crooked. And he had stood with a gruff greeting to her and extended his hand, barking out a generic order to call him Severus but _only in private,_ and that _for Merlin's sake Granger, would you stop this ridiculous trembling?_

But strangely her fingers had never stopped trembling when their eyes met in the mornings; they shook when they held onto the gaze for a second longer than necessary. That was it, though – for one year he had nodded his head, his lips pressed into a firm line while his eyes conveyed his wordless greetings or farewells. And then one evening she had had such a completely shite day that she found herself in an empty corridor after curfew, stomping her feet and hurling profanities into the air. Then for some reason, her feet took her to the one man who would understand just how much she was utterly exasperated by Graham sodding Multon who had just propositioned her in front of the entire sixth year Muggle Studies class.

Severus had said nothing when she stormed into his office, pacing around it and waving her hands in the air as she repeated what the stupid boy had said, and when she'd finished he cocked an eyebrow and handed her a small glass of something clear that burned her throat raw.

"Do not… _concern_ yourself with Graham three-inch-fool Multon." His voice was like chocolate, even as he quoted Shakespeare. Shakespeare? Hermione blinked. She tried so hard not to rise to the challenge, but a lifetime of raising her hand and jumping in her seat meant that there was no chance she was not going to respond.

"' _Am I but three inches?'"_

And that was the first time that Hermione had seen Severus Snape smile, sexual Shakespearean innuendos and all.

At first, it had begun innocently; or at least as innocently as Hermione was capable of. She was almost desperately lonely at Hogwarts – the school didn't carry the charm that it used to without her friends and even though the position as a Professor was enjoyable, it wasn't fulfilling in the way she had hoped. So perhaps it had been natural to seek out the one man that made her heart feel just that little bit lighter. Week by week she began worming her way in – a chance meeting in the corridor here, a bar of dark chocolate passed to him in the common room there. Severus was not receptive; Hermione had never expected that he would be. But somehow they had begun meeting in his quarters once or twice a week, or, if it were warmer, they could be found walking around the lake or taking paths through the forest.

Conversation was easy – none at all, or an amusing jumble of poured out thoughts, mostly from Hermione but sometimes, to her surprise, from Severus himself. She learnt that the Potions Master detested fake humility, teenage bravado, peppermint toads, first years in general and weak black tea. Treacle fudge made his eyes roll back in his head at the first bite, he had a Muggle washing machine, he wore the button down coat year in, year out (and he had five identical versions of it), despised shopping for clothing so transfigured whenever necessary and had once spent a good year or two brewing his own honeyed mead.

In turn, Severus knew that Hermione would run through the Great Hall starkers for high percentage dark chocolate (she'd hidden the fact that his cheeks had flushed slightly pink at that comment), that she could not stand reading a book when a friend had already read it; she simply _must_ be the first. He learnt that she liked to sit and close her eyes and simply listen to voices (she meant his, not that he realised), and that she would prefer to attend a dinner with Umbridge before getting on a broomstick again.

Six months of this meant that Severus knew more about Hermione than anyone – and she, though she did not know it (neither did he), had become the only person to hear such things from the closed off man. That was how Hermione had come to know that there was nothing Severus found more amusing than Whiz-bangs, and she was so happy about that damn little phone that she could have conjured a few out of thin air right then and there.

"How _did_ you do it?" she asked when she'd managed to step away from his body, ignoring the look on his face that reminded her of a beast cornered in a hunt. Her cheeks were a furious shade of red, she could tell from the heat on her face, but she swallowed and grabbed his hand to pull him to the couch. "Show me," she demanded.

Severus looked at her for a long moment, his considering expression quite familiar. He looked like this when he was analysing a potion, watching the bubbles, smelling it carefully. The intensity of it made her shift on the couch and look away from the black eyes that suddenly closed off, as if he had no desire to witness her femininity. Of course he didn't, she realised – she was, after all, one of his ex-students. Why would he even entertain such thoughts? It was a bitter moment of comprehension for Hermione, but she pushed past it and smiled openly at him, spreading her hands with impatience. "Well?"

"It is a charm," he said eventually, then cleared his throat and shook his head minutely.

"A charm?" she pressed. "And here I was thinking that you were merely passable at Charms."

"Indeed," he said dryly, back to his normal self. He produced his wand and muttered a few words, tapped it against the phone and showed her the little bars on the screen that jumped to signify the phone had managed to catch full reception deep in the Scottish highlands. "You have to say it for each and every call you wish to make."

Hermione sighed, delighted, and listened with rapture as he repeated the incantation twice for her, then basked in his slight smile of approval when her own attempt provided the same results.

"Why did you do it? How did you find the time?" she asked when he stood a few moments later and smoothed his hands over his coat before making to stride to the door. He paused at the handle and looked at his feet, then shot her a look that reminded her almost of… _nervousness,_ not that Severus had ever looked nervous to her before. The curtain of black shoulder length hair half covered it, but it was there.

"You mentioned…" he trailed off and shrugged. "You said you wanted to talk to your mother without needing an owl."

He left the room immediately after that; but if he had looked back at her, he would have seen that her mouth was open slightly, her eyes were wide and her hand was at her heart, struck with the sudden knowledge that she was absolutely, completely, maddeningly head over heels in love with Severus Snape.

~0~

Hermione lies in bed listening to the sound of the rain, still holding the phone in one hand. He charmed it six months ago; she has loved him knowingly for six long cycles of the moon – how long before that? How long has she unconsciously looked for him, dared to sit beside him at the teacher's table in the Great Hall, let her fingers brush against his accidentally on purpose, even covering her mouth to hide her smile because she still cannot get over the comment on her teeth. For once, Hermione doesn't even know the answer. One minute he was her teacher, the next her colleague, and now he is the man that keeps her up at night, tossing and turning. There is barely any hint to the man that he used to be – oh, she knows that bastard is still under the surface somewhere, but even though he has never said the words, he is sorry for it all, that much is true.

She was telling the truth earlier. She isn't sleeping – she can barely keep her eyes closed for a couple of hours. And tonight it will be immeasurably worse; the memory of him lying on the couch, his arms linked behind his head to see her better, black shirt riding up to expose his skin. Even now she feels a budding thrill in her belly – the same way she always feels when she sits alone with him and his coat is nowhere to be seen. She likes the coat; Severus and his coat are almost one in the same, you cannot like one without the other, and yet, the sight of him in a black button down shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows…

Hermione sighs, staring up at the canopy of the bed. She wants to lick the line of skin, examine the fairness for herself, study it – she wants to trace the scars that, cruelly, he only displayed for a moment or two.

 _Why_ does he react in such a way? She rolls over on the bed with a huff and looks out the window at the black night sky. Is she too young? Is it the twenty years that are between them? Merlin, is he just _tolerating_ her? Surely she has been more than obvious? Even Neville has watched the two of them together and deduced that Luna has been cleverly keeping a very enticing secret from him.

Should she stay away from him? Is that what he wants? Hermione doesn't want that… no, not at all. For all that he is dour and grumpy and brooding, she is enthralled with him to the point that it almost hurts.

Luna asked her once if she shouldn't just go to the Three Broomsticks and find herself a wizard to dull the ache. Once Hermione got over the shock of her dearest friend telling her to have a one night stand, she did think about it. Even now, still in bed, she thinks about it. But she knows she can't… it would be betraying him somehow, even if he does not want her. There hasn't even been a man since Ron and not even Luna knows how much that embarrasses Hermione, but it's not as if the man she has wanted knowingly for six months and unknowingly for years before that wants her in return.

She gives up on the idea of sleep once the rain sets in and gets up, waving a hand at the one indulgence her Professor's salary has allowed; a small stereo in the corner of the living room, matching thin speakers on the walls between the bookshelves, near the fire that she bends down to stoke. The music plays soft and low in the background, just above the sound of the midnight rain. She settles herself on the couch and drags a blanket over her knees, wishing, wishing, _wishing…_

There is a knock on the door.

Tap, tap, tap.

Her heart skips a beat.

Hesitantly, she unfolds herself and stands, painfully aware that she is only in a singlet and cotton sleep pants, so she draws the blanket over her shoulders and walks slowly to the door. There is one more knock, at the same level as the soft music.

No magic is used, only a single hand to turn the handle and pull it open just enough to see the head of jet black hair that she dreams of knotting her fingers through.

"Severus?" she directs her whisper to the tall man standing with his back to her, still in the same casual clothing. He has never come to her without his coat.

He turns quickly – he hasn't even heard her open the door. Her eyes drink him in, running over his form and she doesn't see how his mouth opens slightly at the sight of her with only a blanket to cover her shoulders.

Their eyes meet.

Severus pinches the top of his nose, and then looks down at her, unsure. There are so many things running through Hermione's mind that she cannot even put a stop to her thoughts and draw one out to see what her reaction is to this man standing in front of her at midnight.

"Severus?"

He swallows and shifts his weight to the other leg. "I…" his voice is like honey running over her, like chocolate, like a purring vibrating through his chest. How can he _not_ know the effect he has on her? Can he not see how her breaths are shorter, how her fingers are bunched tightly into fists to stop them from curling into his shirt to pull him against her? He looks at her again and her breath hitches, _surely_ now he can see…

His brow furrows and he opens his mouth to speak, "Am I interrupting… something?"

She doesn't hear the low thread of disappointment in his voice, because she is too delighted by the small smile when she shakes her head. "No."

"Oh. Well…" the words break off.

"Well?" Hermione scratches at the scar on her chest absentmindedly then tucks her hand away when she sees that he has noticed the movement. Severus frowns again, and she can almost trick herself into believing that he feels enough for her to care that she was ever hurt in the first place.

"Hermione?"

"Severus." Her voice is almost flat now, laced with a slight impatience that makes him give her a gruff laugh.

"I am…" He pauses, and she thinks that he is about to give up, when he opens his mouth again and says the three words that she has never, ever heard from him in the entirety of her life. "I am sorry."

She is gawking, she knows it. He is looking at her, obviously uncertain, and he rubs the spot on his arm where the Dark Mark still faintly shows, something that he does when he is awaiting the outcome of anything. It angers her to see him so used to expecting punishment, but at the same time she is sure she must be glowing enough to light up the night sky; her chest is full to bursting with giddiness.

She wants to say that it's all right, because she bloody well loves him now, doesn't she?

She wants to say that it doesn't matter because he's so ridiculously handsome in his shirt sleeves that it makes her weak at the knees.

She wants to say that he never has to apologise to her, because she knows him well enough to know when he is sorry – but she also wants to say that the effort it has taken him to arrive to such a phrase, this strange, unfamiliar combination of words, has not gone unnoticed.

So what does she say? What does Hermione Granger, wordsmith extraordinaire, say to the man who does not want to know that she loves him, nor that she thinks he is handsome, nor that she doesn't want his apologies, and only wants her for her companionship and conversation?

"Well, you'd better come in then."

She stands aside and holds the door open wider, nodding at his relieved sigh as he walks slowly in through the gap between her body and the frame. It takes effort to hold in a long exhale of frustration because he edges into the room to avoid brushing shoulders with her, but she is content enough with his presence. For now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, except for the fun I am subjecting poor Severus to (no doubt I shall receive many detentions for suggesting that he wished to find himself – sorry, Professor).

 **A/N:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/followed/read this story! I make no apologies for the dreadful jokes contained in this chapter, but I will freely admit to having a bloody good time finding them. Lyrics are Crowded House, 'Fall at your Feet'. I'm amazed that I haven't used them yet. The Tom Waits song mentioned is 'I Can't Wait to Get Off Work (and see my baby)'. Remember that this is a short little story, so stay tuned for the next (and final) chapter. I have responded to all reviews bar one which is a guest one, so allow me to say here that I was ecstatic to read that particular review!

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Tough and Tender**

You're hiding from me now

There's something in the way that you're talking

The words don't sound right

But I hear them all moving inside you

.

Severus sits in his laboratory, staring at the long finished potion. What has the great Master of Potions made? A grand total of ten sodding bottles filled with cures for boils. He looks at the neat row of bottles and rolls his eyes, glad for the distraction but almost immediately packs them up and ascends the stairs.

He will go to the hospital wing. Yes, that's it; he will go to the hospital wing and let himself in, no need to bother with disturbing Poppy who is no doubt still in the Great Hall. He is determined; he has a clear direction-

"Oh, sod off Crookshanks."

The cat stares up at him from its position. For some ridiculous reason, it has parked its surprisingly heavy rump on his shoes.

"Those are dragon hide boots, beast."

Crookshanks blinks then emits a low whine. Severus feels his lip curling out of pure instinct and he tries to move his feet, though the fat arse on them does not budge.

"Cat, I am _warning_ you," he snarls, ready to reach for his wand to levitate the damn animal through the corridors for some mindless entertainment, though he stops at the last moment, remembering that this is Hermione's cat. Hermione's cat…

"Fucking hell," he breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Hermione… Sod it all; what is he supposed to _do_ about it? Crookshanks curls his claws gently into his calves and Severus huffs in annoyance. "I know, beast, I do understand what I have done- ah! What the f-" The cat hisses until he holds his hands up and backs towards the couch, sitting down without removing his narrowed eyes from the beast that is stalking towards him. It eyes him and blinks a few more times.

"You'll have to come up with something better than that," he drawls, attempting to be unperturbed at the great hunk of orange fur in front of him, but all it serves to do is remind him that there is a woman somewhere in this great big castle and he has upset her when all he wants to do is bury his face in her hair and feel the warmth of her skin, imprisoned between the smoothness of her thighs, drawing breath with her.

 _For fuck's sake._

Crookshanks gives a short, indignant purr that sounds so much like the impatient snort of his mistress that Severus leans back into the couch, defeated. "I know. I know, cat. I know."

And he does know; he is in love with her.

~0~

At forty four years of age, Severus Snape had no sodding idea what love was, and he did not intend to find out. He had thought that he was in love once… perhaps he was, but all it did was leave him with a suffocating feeling of guilt and loss, and if that overpowering, breath stealing feeling was love then he was a dancing werewolf. It wasn't love – it was madness.

 _Lily_ … Severus sighed, glad that he was in his usual corner in the staff common room, his face half obscured by the shadows cast by the curtains. Even now she haunted him; green eyes would follow him around the corridors, the sound of her voice would sound out from behind a corner and when he'd rush to it, there was only air; nothingness.

After all of this time, he had held himself to the all encompassing guilt surrounding her death, so sickened by his thoughtless mistake that gave him a hand in her demise, that over half of his life had been defined by living to the standards that she wished he would have done in the first place. But she didn't, not really; he'd realised that not long after the final battle when his throat was still torn open. She'd cared for him as a friend, perhaps even loved him with the lightness of a beautiful girl caring for a repulsive, greasy looking sod, but he had constructed such a pure, impeccable image of her that it had managed to push him through all of those years with the Mark commanding his time, ruining his life. When he closed his eyes and saw her face behind the lids, he could find the words to make the students hate him, the cutting insults that would keep up the façade that he was a heartless bastard; and now the heartless bastard was all that he had left.

Six years had passed since the year that he had almost died and here he was, back in Hogwarts again. What on earth had possessed him to come back, Severus had no idea, but two years after the scars on his neck were first given to him, he had marched back in and took up his old position. The monotony of it all was assuring after two years of throwing himself into healing, then travelling as far away from the school as he could get. He did not step foot in Spinner's End, not wanting to create more ties to the place that he despised, and instead he had attempted to _find_ himself.

Severus had started with India - well that was one sodding mistake. One hour had sent him straight to the nearest quiet corner (which took him almost the whole night to find) with the intent of apparating as far away as possible, which landed him in an obscure Russian village. He'd promptly taken off again; settling for a quiet town on the Irish coast where he used half of his meagre savings to buy a two roomed cottage perched precariously on a cliff. And for all that he was lonely and frustrated, he savoured the peace and quiet. He delighted in it (there was that word again), and he rose each morning and went to bed each night without saying a word. It was exhilarating. But it was not enough.

He wasn't sure what he wanted, nor what had pushed him to return to the school. But return he did, and now he sat in the same corner he'd sat in for over twenty years, listening to much of the same people droning on about students and food and students and food and…

And then, in a whirl of hair and billowing robes (of which he suspected she had charmed to imitate his own skill at manipulating folds of fabric), Hermione Granger walked into the staff common room, took one look at him and beamed like he was her personal sun.

Severus scowled. She beamed some more. He scowled again.

"Really, Professor," she sighed and sat down beside him, beginning their first conversation in years.

 _When had she grown breasts?_

"We are working together now," she continued with a firm nod.

"Are we?"

"We are."

"Right."

"Right what?"

"We are working together."

"Oh, yes." She stood and brushed an orange hair from her robes. "We are."

Hermione walked away, though not before she smiled kindly and tapped his arm. He cocked an eyebrow and stared at the contact, then back at her. She seemed determined to put on an air of indifference, and turned on her heel to sashay back to the table to join the rest of the staff.

 _Sashay?_

When had Severus Snape ever even thought of the word _sashay_? But what else could he say to describe the way the black robes rippled over her hips as they swayed from side to side, highlighting the curves of her waist… Gods. His eyes were fit to bust and he shook his head, unintentionally matching the pace of her backside.

He left the room not long after.

~0~

Severus groans and closes his eyes. Yes, obviously he can clearly remember when he realised that Hermione was, in fact, a woman. But how has it come to be that two years later, he has been struck with the sudden understanding that he knows that this strange blanket of warmth that envelops him is in fact his heart being in love with her?

How does he even understand what love is?

Was it the conversations she persisted with for two full months until he finally realised that he was enjoying them, and opened his mouth to actually participate? Was it the little gifts left on his desk every month or so? Even now he has a square of fudge in the cupboard from the last time they ventured into Hogsmeade together, and she'd forced him to stand and wait outside of Honeydukes for her because by Merlin, there was no sodding way that he was entering that small pocket of hell.

But he'd watched her. Surreptitiously, of course, leaning against the wall across the way, catching glimpses of her through the windows as her thin brown eyebrows puckered in the effort of selecting all of the delicacies that were bound to make his mouth water, though not as much as it watered when she drew her hair to the side and he saw the slim column of her neck.

They make a strange looking pair, the two of them. Severus knows all too well the impression he gives off; greasy, sallow, lank, and repulsive. And not just for his appearance – so many years of living a double life means that he is skirted around, barely ever trusted. But Hermione… Severus leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, staring at Crookshanks. Hermione is young and beautiful, kind and open, but reserved enough to wrap him around her finger and guide him to a mutually agreeable style of conversation. She is everything that he is not – trusted, accepted, loved. And yet she chooses to spend her time with _him._

At first it frustrated him, made him feel like some pet project of hers to replace the absence of homework. But now he sees that she works almost constantly on grading, testing, researching – she _has_ work already, and who does she spend her quiet time with? Severus Snape, Potions Master, cantankerous git. They are not so different; not now, anyway. It makes him sick to think that she might be like him, he who has tortured, killed, maimed… yet she is, in her own way. But she is far, far too good for him.

"Beast?"

Crookshanks tosses its orange head and glares. Severus clears his throat then rubs his forehead.

"I am a forty six year old man," he says with finality. "Your mistress is a twenty six your old woman."

He jumps up and begins to pace around the room, running through his options. It seems glaringly obvious that Hermione is seeing someone, though where she finds the time he has no idea. Boots hit the floor at the same tempo as his thoughts as he tries to decide what he should do… apologise, of course, but Gods, he needs to remove himself from her life. And her from his. He is being a selfish bastard – but he does not think he can stand back again and watch her be happy when he wants her to be happy with _him._ And no one like her could ever be happy with him.

"Right… right. Well… right," he nods firmly and strides to the door, not even bothering with his coat or robes. He moves with determination, going first to the Hospital Wing and slipping in like the spy he was and is, then slowly lets his feet take him outside the one door that he wants to open to him always, though it is not for him. Not anymore.

He knocks.

"Severus?"

~0~

He slips inside, careful to maintain polite distance, and then lets her lead him to the couch. She has music playing softly, an older man's voice crooning something unintelligible that is half swallowed up by the rain beating on the windows. The fire is roaring but she's cracked open one of the windows, just enough for fresh air to swirl around the room. Fresh air for Hermione and dungeons for Severus. He swallows and looks away from the window, directing his gaze to the fire while she busies herself with making tea. At length he is handed a steaming cup; he can smell the brown sugar and the extra strong tag has a ridiculous phrase printed on one side: _'Tom Waits (for no man)'_. He cocks an eyebrow.

"What?" Hermione is defensive and her cheeks are flushed – she said he wasn't interrupting, but he can't help but notice that the blanket around her shoulders has slipped and the blush has spread to her neck. There is a bitter taste on his tongue as he thinks of the lucky bastard that gets to make her feel like this, excited and nervous.

He feels a twitch at the corner of his mouth; a little smile reserved for her. She beams and he reads out the phrase on the tag.

"Well… er, yes," she sniffs. "He doesn't, does he?" On cue, the familiar raspy voice flows out of the speakers and Severus snorts in laughter, shaking his head. Show him a woman as beautiful as her, that listens to music that would make better men fall into her bed; nobody could. _You are incredible,_ he wants to say, but he doesn't, he aims for safer grounds.

"What does yours say?"

"Mine?" Hermione eyes him innocently from under her lashes; he might as well just kneel naked at her feet right now.

"It seems glaringly obvious that you have charmed the box of tea bags to display your own terrible sense of humour."

Her answering laugh has him enthralled: her head falls back and the brown hair is tossed about. She says nothing, and then moves closer to him on the lounge. The heat of her is so distracting that he almost misses the little tag that is shoved under his nose:

' _One does not simply drink tea without fudge.'_

"Oh, fucking hell Granger."

Long black eyelashes are batting and a mischievous, catlike smile spreads over the pink lips that he so badly wants to feel pressed against his own. He takes a long drink of the strong bitter tea instead.

"Do you not enjoy my humour, _sir?_ "

"Do not call me 'sir'."

"Why ever not?"

 _Because it makes me want to bend you over my desk and-_

"Because you're nearly a decade older than the students in this school and it sounds… nonsensical."

 _Say it again, say it again…_

"Are you making a reference to my age, _sir_?"

 _Oh fuck…_

"Of course I am not, I know better."

She hums in acknowledgement, a secretive smirk painted on her face. Severus looks resolutely away, cursing the sod who will receive this when she is completely bare except for the gold necklace that she never takes off. Coincidentally it was he who gave her the necklace in a plain little box (heroically, he shoved it into her palm and walked away before she could open it) for her birthday a few months ago; it is an arching cat, and as she stretches beside him Severus thinks that he might just start to bloody purr if her shoulders graze his again. The lure of her is irresistible; he can't halt the words that come next.

"Show me the rest of the tea bags."

She springs off the couch with a laugh and the blanket falls from her shoulders, taunting him. Hermione returns and falls onto the couch beside him, letting him peruse the box of little tea bags at his leisure, and it's really inevitable that he ends up with a belly full of laughter that pours out of him, ending ecstatically when the ring of hers joins his.

' _If you played Quidditch, you'd be a keeper.'_ Severus gags at that one.

' _That's riddikulus.'_

' _Are you serious? No I'm Severus.'_

"Granger!"

This time there's no defensive remark – she's laughing just as hard as he is, even though his name has been butchered on a bloody buggering tea bag.

"This is beneath you," he says, trying to catch his breath, then lets out a string of expletives when she shows him another tag:

' _Mind if I Slytherin?'_

"Bloody hell," he says flatly. "This really is the most incredible shit."

Her hoots of laughter are captivating, even more so when she fans herself and hiccups. "Remember when you went to buy more ingredients last term?"

He does. She'd complained because it was on one of the nights that they usually spent sitting in his chambers. "Are you telling another awful joke? You spent your evening doing _these_?"

She can't even answer, she's laughing too hard. This is far, far too dangerous for Severus – all he wants to do is kiss her. He contents himself with watching her with a stern glower that only sets her off again.

They sigh in unison, and soon they are both leaning with their feet on the coffee table as Tom Waits tells them that he can't wait to get off work and see his baby, and Severus recounts the ingredients in his stockroom to get his mind off of her bare toes that are tapping on the wooden table in time to the music.

The silence is almost painful; it's not awkward, but he has things that he wants to say and her eyes are closed. Who is she thinking of?

"Hermione?" he starts tentatively, then loses his tongue when her brown eyes fix on his. He is so, so far gone.

"Severus?" A soft hand lands on his good knee and squeezes, drawing all of his breath out in a sharp exhale. He eases himself away from her touch, and tries to ignore the flash of hurt on her face. "What is it? Something's wrong, isn't it? Are you all right?"

Any remnants of courage and left over bastardry are quickly brought to the surface as he focuses on the only way she'll hate him, so she can be left to be happy. "Do not concern yourself with me. I merely wished to say that our… _arrangement_ has ceased to be of interest to me, and as such I would like for it to end."

If there is a higher power, it should strike him down right now because she is looking so fucking disappointed and betrayed that it feels like a knife to his chest.

" _Why?"_ she whispers, then her next words twist the knife in even further. "This is school, all over again. Hermione, the annoying Gryffindor trying to get the approval of the teacher. That's it, isn't it?"

"No," he says immediately; he can't stop the word coming out, and he has no hope in hell of stopping his hand from seeking hers. "It's not that."

She takes his hand in an iron grip. "Then what is it? You said it's not _interesting._ Am I boring you right now, Severus?"

 _Don't say it, don't say it-_

"No!"

 _Bugger._

"Then _what?_ Explain yourself."

She's being condescending, but he's being a bastard; he deserves it. He doesn't even know what to say – he wasn't counting on her looking so upset. Where is her mysterious wizard now? His eyes dart to the fire, madly hoping that the man will floo in and dismember him.

"You shouldn't be so invested in our friendship, Hermione." There, that's suitable. Except she crosses her arms at her chest and her lip quivers. It's too easy for him to reach out to cup her face, and when she leans into his palm it hurts more than the Cruciatus.

"Bugger off, Severus, who are you to decide what sort of investment I should place in a friendship?"

 _True._

"It's not suitable."

Her eyes were closed and they fly open now, boring into his. She is _so close._ "Says who?"

It's so childish that Severus wants to poke out his forty six year old tongue and waggle his fingers at his ears.

"I don't know," he manages, nearly choking when he realises that he can feel her lips moving when she speaks because his palm is still on her cheek. He's drawn to her like a moth to a flame, like a dishevelled and disdainful animal seeking water.

"Do you know what I think?" she says, her voice low and laced with venom. He truly does not want to know but she continues after a quick breath. "I think you're _afraid._ "

He removes his hand and his lip curls. The sneer is so natural that she blinks. "I am not _afraid_ , Hermione. But I do not believe that it is _suitable behaviour_ to continue our friendship when you are carrying on with…" he breaks off; he really doesn't want to complete the sentence.

Severus does not understand her reaction at all. She repeats the words to herself; silently mouthing them, then claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and laughing so obviously that he is mortified like a sodding teenager again. The mask appears almost immediately, his usual scowl, and he is standing before she even realises it, too angry to even look at her. He doesn't pay attention to her when she tells him to come back, and doesn't even look back when she shouts his name.

And as a middle aged wizard, the most powerful man in the entire school, he really should have been more prepared because she follows him, grabbing onto his arm as he reaches to the handle. She pulls so roughly that he spins to face her, and he is so surprised that when she places two firm, warm hands on his cheeks and pulls his face down, he doesn't even do anything to stop her. Not even when she opens her mouth to speak.

" _Legilimens!"_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters, and thank Merlin for that!

 **A/N:** Here we are at the end. If I can say anything, it will be to thank you all for the lovely ego boost – this fandom is quickly becoming one of my favourites. You're all so very wonderful. Please forgive me in advance for being such a tease – you'll see what I mean when you get to the end. But in my defence, it was such a delicious moment to leave it at! I couldn't resist. Blame Helen Fielding, yet again. Also forgive me for Hermione's tiny snippets – I started with Severus, and I wanted so badly to end with Severus that it had to be done.

If you have time, leave a review and let me know what you thought of the story. There are over 70 followers, so I'll be waiting for 70 extra reviews. Hahah, Gods, I am kidding. Sort of. ;-) But really, let me know, and I can get onto planning the next story. What would you like? Hermione as a Potions Apprentice? Hermione at the age that she is here? Everything's on the table.

Thanks again! Oh, and lyrics at the top here are from 'Seeing Angels' – John Butler Trio, consequently the same musician that I mention somewhere in the middle of this chapter. Cheerio!

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Listen**

My mouth was dry

Only you quenched my thirst

I thought I was last

You told me I was first.

.

It hurts. God, it hurts. Not just the defences that slam down on her almost immediately, but the shock in his eyes that soon changes to anger when he realises just what she is doing. Hermione has endured an Unforgivable, and she knows what it feels like to have her chest on fire from Dolohov's slashing curse.

But this is so, so much worse because it's _him._

Somehow she manages to keep her hold on his face, though they are both as still as stone, his black eyes blazing and hers beseeching. Her mind _aches_ ; she is surrounded by blackness, by deep heavy walls of separation that he has constructed all around her lonely figure. She can see Severus before her, but at the same time, she can see in his mind – and she is well aware that is a measure of how much he cares for her that he is not just throwing her out on her arse. He is allowing her to stay, but he will show her nothing but the flashes of distress that are puncturing his thoughts.

' _Stop!'_

Hermione calls out the command, capturing his attention. Their chests are heaving with the effort but she can only see black eyes and strong walls. Her fingertips dig into his cheeks, drawing him closer until their noses are almost touching, and she really could just kiss him but instead she grinds her teeth together and pushes, wishing for once that she was better at this than she is.

' _Look!'_

And she shows him.

~0~

The intrusion of her feels like a bludger to the head; Severus is reeling from it, and he would stagger if she wasn't holding onto him so fiercely. He can't bring himself to sever the connection, because the intimacy of it is so fucking tantalising, even though she is seeing nothing and she is hearing nothing. They are nothingness, yet they are together in a way they have never been.

She commands him to stop! He knows that there are frantic feelings that break through his walls every now and again, hers and his. Her hands pull him down closer to her; he has no choice but to obey. Slowly, surely, he falls further into her brown eyes and exhales, letting the fear and hurt and anger seep away into the blackness of his mind.

With acceptance comes knowledge. He does not bring down his walls, but there is a nudging there, somewhere… he does not recognise it but it _feels_ like her – pure, innocent, and loving. Loving? There are no images, no clear words – she really isn't very good at this – but the feelings that she is projecting are confusing, tormenting, and it no longer hurts because she wants him in her head, not the other way around. Severus doesn't think that anyone has ever _wanted_ him in their minds.

She pushes again, her fingers digging into him with the effort, and suddenly he is with _her_ , in _her_ mind, no longer seeing her big brown eyes but standing in the midst of thoughts that whirl like orbiting stars and images that flash past in a blur. It's like a slap to the face – it's too much to see at once. But he is at home here, in the vastness of her vibrant, spinning mind, and he reaches out to her:

' _What do you want me to see?'_

The sense of her relief is overwhelming, and so very welcome. He begins to speak softly to her, gently guiding, telling her what to do. Severus can't help but think that she is about to show him the new wizard in her life, but then he hears the ghost of a chuckle in his ears and shoves his walls up firmly once more, sure that his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.

He sees the memory before he even understands what it is that he is looking at.

 _She is small, only five or so, a bundle of gangly limbs and wild hair. The beach is crowded; it is the height of summer. Hermione is jumping over the ripples that wash over the tiny pebbles, looking back every now and again to a distant female figure that waves each time her head turns. The water is cool on her skin, but she is scared; she is afraid of this unknown mass, this uncontrollable body of water that could swallow her whole._

Severus tries to reach out to her, this little girl who is the woman next to him. _'What are you showing me?'_

The little girl doesn't answer, of course, but there is a low whisper in his mind, and somehow he registers that Hermione the woman is speaking into his ear, even though he is too caught up in the memory to see her.

"Safety."

 _A brown haired man emerges from the water, stalking towards this tiny little Hermione, growling and roaring like a bear out of hibernation. The girl shrieks and giggles, twisting away until her father bounds towards her and tosses her over his shoulder, then slowly wades into the water, bending her in his arms so he is holding her securely. He carries her deeper and deeper into the water, and the girl is entranced – waves wash over her body, but she is not afraid, she is not scared, she is enveloped with warmth and comfort._

The scene changes abruptly, and Severus is yanked back into the whirl of thoughts, his subconscious self bending at the middle from the force of the movement.

"Sorry," she says ruefully, "I'm not very good."

Any answering reply he could have made is forgotten when he is thrown into the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

 _Hermione walks deliberately slowly, eyes fixed on the magical ceiling, the joy in her body just about brimming over – she is giddy with it, she thinks it is the best day in her life – the very, very best day. Finally she will be accepted, she will be-_

Back Severus goes to the whirlwind, hearing his own laugh at the first year version of the goddess in front of him, sobering when she says quietly, "Happiness."

She is quicker this time, and he is soon in an unfamiliar room, staring at a wall but unsure what he is doing there until he hears a soft groan and turns with dread to see-

 _They are rolling and fumbling, Hermione and the red haired companion of her youth. He is tugging at her jeans, and she is accepting his kisses with smiles-_

' _ **Stop,'**_ he thinks firmly, he does not want to see this.

' _ **No!'**_

 _A freckled hand slides under her shirt and she nods nervously up at the boy, but then she wonders – is this it? Is this love? He pulls her clothes away and moves back to work on his own, and all she can think of is that this is not everything she hoped for: this is not the love, the tenderness, that she wanted…_

He returns to the roll of thoughts with relief, feeling bile in his stomach that twists with confusion when her soft voice names the memory:

"Doubt."

He has no time to think on it.

 _The young woman has her back to him, but she throws a smile over her shoulder; it is Hermione at twenty five. She calls out to someone – who? She calls out again, then jogs through the snow, laughter washing over Severus as he observes her thoughts, then suddenly sees himself. She is running to Severus, he is wrapped in a winter coat and cloak; she is bounding up to him as he walks slowly around the frozen lake. Her thoughts are everywhere, and then they're reduced to something that looks like five exclamation marks as the Severus of her memories smiles when he notices her arrival. He lets his eyes run over her figure, and when she squeezes his arm in a gesture of greeting, he tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, hesitates and then draws his cloak over the both of them and continues to walk with her, listening quietly while she talks._

He comes back to Hermione's mind with a start. _'What was that?'_ he asks tentatively, not sure he wants to know the answer, then gasps when she gives it:

"Happiness."

The sound of her voice in his ear again is like a jolt of Muggle electricity; he blinks, severing the connection for a second but then sees her brows puckered in concentration, and dives back in. He cannot resist.

 _He is in his study, and she walks in slowly, flapping two small pieces of Muggle paper in the air._

" _What on earth are you holding?" he asks, not looking up from his marking. Hermione takes another look at the concert tickets and clears her throat, pushing away the nerves._

" _A birthday present. From… from Ron," she says quietly. Severus shrugs indifferently; the action is enough to make her scowl inwardly, then she soldiers on._

" _Anyway, there are two tickets and I thought you might like-"_

 _He's out of his seat. He takes one look at the picture of a dreadlocked musician with hair down to his arse and snorts with laughter. "Granger, perhaps you are mistaken. I'm a middle aged man."_

 _Her eyes stray to his hands, and she wonders if he understands just how wrong he really is. A middle aged man would not make her weak at the knees just because his fingers brushed hers when he took the ticket. A middle aged man would not make her want to disappear without a trace just so she could bury herself in the sheets of his bed, never to emerge from his arms._

" _Go with someone your own age," he says softly, the decline of her unspoken offer making her wince._

" _Right," she mumbles. "Right. I will. Evening, Severus."_

Severus blinks. "Hermione, what-"

 _She is dancing to the music, a cool bottle of beer in one hand and the other in the air. The Australian on stage is strumming the strings as if in a frenzy; the crowd is being whipped along with him and the old concert hall is a sea of writhing bodies. Hermione is standing towards the back, alone._

 _She is trying to forget that she only wants one other person to be here with her, to experience this with her, but then she'd be pushing it, wouldn't she? She doesn't want to push it… she doesn't know what she wants, but she knows that she wants Severus here, all the same._

 _There is a group of three younger men who have been eyeing her with interest, taking in the slim cut jeans, black shirt and wild hair, and when they move over to her during a break in the music she hesitates, feeling her wand under her sleeve. She backs to the wall, her heart is thumping as they come ever closer – when one of them licks his lips, she closes her eyes and reaches for him, trying to conjure him up out of thin air-_

" _Sweetheart?"_

 _The low, familiar voice is laced with anger and she is startled for a second, seeing Severus instantly beside her, his arm tight around her waist and his features arranged into an intimidating scowl. He is every inch the fearsome, powerful man, and the boys (that's what they are next to him, after all) splutter and cough and stumble away, reacting to what their subconscious tells them about this dangerous, black haired man._

" _Oh, God," she whispers into his shoulder, then in spite of his easing his hold on her, she turns into his body and rests her cheek on his chest, relaxing when she feels the familiar coat on her skin. "Thank you. You came."_

" _For you," he answers quietly, smoothing one single hand over her hair before easing away from her embrace. He looks over her head at the musicians, and she grins when she sees that he is tapping his free hand on his thigh. The knowledge that he might actually enjoy himself with her is intoxicating. "He really does have hair down to his arse, doesn't he?"_

 _And just like that, she is laughing again, and even though he "does not dance, not now, not ever," she soon has more beer for them both and he leans against the wall at the back of the hall and watches as she twists and turns, clapping her hands and jumping up and down to the music._

"Safety."

Severus can remember that night. Hermione was beautiful and dangerous all at the same time, and he could not take his eyes from her even if he wanted to. The pull of her dominated any desire he had to stalk after the pitiful excuses for humans who had made her breath quicken with fear; but selfishly, as he watched her and drank from the cool bottle of beer in his hand, he thought that being able to call her 'sweetheart', even though he never would have said the word out loud if his life depended on it, was perhaps the best fucking thing that had happened to him in years.

And she had felt _safe._ With _him._

"Fucking hell," he says, instantly disbelieving.

' _Keep watching,'_ she chides him, clucking her mental tongue, so he grins and allows her to pull him back to wherever she wants him to be.

 _They are on the couch, only minutes before. Their shoulders are touching and her heart is thudding wildly in her chest, she cannot believe that he has come to her, that he has apologised._

Severus rubs his forehead and prepares for the worst.

"Shut up, would you?" her voice says loudly into his ear. "For once, just shut up."

It's almost painful now, because she digs her fingers into his shoulders and pulls him back into her mind, ignoring his muffled protests.

 _He is reading the tags on the tea bags, laughing more and more. She's sure that his stomach must hurt – has he ever laughed like this in his life? Of course he has… but he is laughing with_ her! _That must mean something… oh! He looks like he has something to say…_

 _Severus turns to Hermione, and in an instant it all comes out; her face falls and her eyes are swimming before she knows it. She is not interesting? Has she been boring him all this time? What is she, then? Annoying? The little chit from school who couldn't keep her hand from waving in the air?_

Severus gives up at that, and pulls himself away from her, from her mind and her hands on his shoulders. "Enough, enough," he says quietly. "I am sorry. I am. But you know-"

"No!"

Hermione's shout surprises them both – Severus most of all. He stares at her and rakes a hand through his hair; he's lost his tongue. "Why not?" he manages to say eventually, dreading that she will admit that he has finally done it – he's finally driven her away, not even safety and happiness with him is enough to forgive him when he's all but said he will always think of her as the little first year, always in a snit over something or other. Severus is a sensational liar, after all.

He stares at her, black eyes meeting brown, watching her breaths come hard and fast. The fire must have died down because _for_ _fuck's sake_ , he can see the peaks of her breasts through the thin singlet, and the outline of her legs in the soft blue pants drives him to internally curse the cruel mistress that is her body, all he wants to do is touch her.

"Severus." She takes a step towards him; her lower lip is captured by her teeth. "Severus, just _look._ "

He shakes his head, backing towards the door as she advances on him until his body hits the solid wall. She comes closer.

"Why not?"

Breathing in, the Potions Master pinches the bridge of his nose. "I do not wish to see how I have hurt you."

The whisper of air in front of him is enough to tell him that she's stopped just shy of touching him, not that he can see – his eyes are firmly fixed on the floor.

~0~

Hermione knows the value of patience. She understands that hard work pays off, that sometimes she cannot charge into something even if she might want to so damn much that it's driving her mad. So she stops just short of touching him, and watches as the pulse at his throat begins to beat erratically, like the drums on the night that he stood by and watched just so she could dance like an idiot. He does not want to see the memory, and she won't force it on him, even though all she wanted to say was "certainty" when the Severus of her memory cupped her cheek and she leant into it, enjoying the feel of him. Hermione knows that sometimes, tactics need to be changed.

For a long time, she does not move. He grows more and more relaxed by the minute, and the moment she senses that his pulse is slowing, she reaches out with one small hand and lets it rest flat on his chest, over his heart.

He sucks in a breath at the contact and his black eyes are dark and wild when his head snaps up. The confusion and disbelief and hope warring on his features would almost be painful to watch if her own face wasn't a complete mirror; there is no way of knowing just how he will react.

Hermione takes in everything of this moment: his dishevelled black hair, still cut so it sits just above his shoulders, the piercing black gaze that almost burns with its intensity, the sharp, defined lines of his face. He is still too thin – perhaps he always will be – but her hand quickly grows warm from his body heat, and there is only a thin layer of material between her palm and his chest, so she can very safely say that she knows without a doubt now that there are subtle muscles under the button down shirt. Gods, she cannot even put into words just how _much_ she wants him. Desire is pooling in her belly and drying her mouth with only the _possibility_ of triumph.

They both watch her hand as it slowly, very slowly, slides up his chest to touch the bare skin at his neck, then his jaw that is clenched. The small sigh that escapes his lips has such an unbearable amount of sweetness to it that she moves closer, keeping her eyes locked on his as her hand moves around to his hair and pulls downwards, not too hard, not too soft. Just enough to-

"Hermione…"

"Severus?"

~0~

She is so close. So, so close. He can read her like an open book; the desire on her face is enough to send him reeling. How has she kept this from him for so long? Just feeling the warm, sweet waves of her breath so close to his mouth has him shaking his head and raising his hands to settle on her shoulders, sliding behind her neck and drawing her to him.

When their lips meet, he cannot stifle a dark groan and satisfaction hits him like a tonne of bricks when she stirs immediately and opens her mouth, sliding her tongue towards his, her fingers twisting in his hair.

He can't even think of anything but her mouth, how soft it is, how she tastes of tea and chocolate and something else that he can't place but might just be uniquely _her._

"Hermione…" he whispers her name again, breaking away for the tiniest of moments just to revel in saying it, even though his voice is hoarse and rough.

"Severus…" she responds, low and teasing. The sound of his name travels through his body until she gives a tiny, delectable moan when he pulls her against him and crushes his mouth to hers, knowing all the while that she can feel the hardness of him pressing insistently on her thigh.

It is all too much; it is not enough.

Before he even thinks of releasing her out of politeness rather than anything else, she steps back, tugging on his arms until he steps with her, and soon enough they are repeating the movement over and over, mouths still hot and wanton, until she turns him around and pushes and he falls onto her bed, stunned. He contemplates asking if she got him there by magic alone but quickly decides against it when she crawls like a cat to lie over him, eyes his clothes and shakes her head.

"These aren't needed, are they Severus?" she whispers, one light subtle finger trailing a line of fire from his calf to his thigh, then higher still. He can only swear under his breath and rely on his better strength as he grips onto her arms and flips her underneath him, moulding his mouth to hers again and _finally_ running his hands over her body, over and then under the singlet, grinning against her mouth when she moans as his palm cups her breast, a thumb lightly brushing her nipple before descending lower and lower, past cotton pants, past a tiny layer of lace, until she is whispering his name over and over. He is coaxing, calling her out to play, and by fucking Merlin the way she responds will be the death of him; she hooks her legs around his waist and arches her back so her breasts meet his chest and his hardness is rubbing against her just _there_ …

"Hermione…" he can't manage to say anything but her name and even then it comes out like a choked whisper or maybe a prayer, "Hermione…"

She pulls him back down and kisses him again, long and hard, pausing only quickly just to put her lips to his ear. "Severus," she says quietly, " _please._ "

Fucking hell, the sound of her voice is small change compared to how her hands are dipping under his black button down shirt and tracing his scars, nails scraping over the dark hair on his chest. Please? _Please?_ She thinks she has to say please to this man, this wizard, who has been imagining this moment for over a year and still finds himself floored by the skin under his hands that is like velvet, her wild hair that tickles his cheeks, the folds at the juncture of her thighs that are opening so easily to his fingers that are seeking and searching.

This is the dream that he has been chasing – this open invitation, given so trustingly by the woman beneath him, still fully clothed but gripping onto his body with such blatant possessiveness that it will drive him to madness. Not once does his mouth leave hers; even as she moans, whines and lets out throaty laughs, he swallows them all and commits them to memory.

Suddenly her hands are fumbling with his belt and he is breathless with want, unable to break the surge of wandless magic that leaves them both bare and pressed to each other. Gods, the feel of her naked skin on his… he can't even think, the only thing he can bring himself to say for _that_ is that it is hot, from the nape of her neck to the line between her breasts, her stomach that is soft with a tiny little pouch from their late night hot chocolate indulgences; she is perfect, and she doesn't even realise that they are both naked to touch until her hand wanders and strokes him, and her surprised jolt matches the groan that falls from his lips into her open mouth.

"How did you…?"

"Natural occurrence," he mumbles, descending to her neck and biting in gently, chuckling when one little hand slides behind him to squeeze a buttock.

"And to think, I took you for such a nice man," she teases, breaking off at the end to sigh when his thumb begins to circle that tiny nub that shows her that yes, he might be an older man, but in his defence he will bring her to a writhing mess because he is not one of those boys that she needs to harbour doubts over. "Nice men don't magic away clothes and kiss like this now, do they?"

His response is half eaten up by her mouth when she pulls on his hair to bring him up to her level again, but he gives it all the same, knowing that in a second or two he can push himself into her, to the place that he never wants to leave, so she will forgive his terrible attempt at humour.

"Oh yes," he says with certainty, grinning wolfishly to match her coquettish smile, "oh yes they fucking do."

.

.

.

* * *

 _fin._


End file.
